


King Cobra

by Tyranno



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (kind of...?), Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Be Careful What You Wish For, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, horror elements (light)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 20:53:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19384462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: Over his long life, mostly by simply being in the right place at the right time, Crowley has gotten more commendations than any other demon in human history. Hell is finally taking notice--and upper management  decides some sort of reward or even promotion is in order.Crowley is not very happy about this.





	King Cobra

**Author's Note:**

> this is the most formatting ive ever had to do in a fic lol  
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The message crackles through the Bentley so abruptly Aziraphale has to stop mid-word to avoid his voice registering through the channel.

“ _Crowley, you’re wanted in Hell,_ ” Hastur’s voice fills car with a coldness, “ _Report immediately. End message._ ”

There was another half-second of static crackle, and then Freddy Mercury’s low croon resurfaced. The barely audible drums matched the rain which beat steadily on the windscreen. Outside, London was having a dim, melancholy evening, the sliding sheets of water on the bonnet flashing as they passed under street-lights.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, and cleared his throat. What he’d just been saying—an argument in favour of warming the teapot with hot water before making a brew—seemed, suddenly, very unimportant. “I wonder what that was all about.”

“Hastur sounded unhappy,” Crowley said, flexing his fingers around the steering wheel, “So it can’t be too bad.”

“One can only hope,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley swung the car around in a sudden hairpin turn that only missed a parked delivery truck by hair. The Bentley roared back up the road, sloshing through the deep puddles and spraying indignant pedestrians. The sky was a deep, unpleasant grey-black, the moon like a cotton-wrapped lightbulb.

“I should go report soon,” Crowley said, “We don’t want them to send anyone. I’ll drop you off at the shop.”

“Thank you.”

Crowley said nothing for a long while. His jaw tensed and relaxed rhythmically as if he was chewing a stone. Rain smeared the windscreen as easily as grease would have, but Crowley avoided the oncoming traffic by luck alone. Aziraphale reached over and flicked on the windscreen wipers.

The Bentley swerved towards the pavement and parked sharply.

Queen shut off. Aziraphale opened the door, and the pounding rain doubled. It bounced and bounced against the metal roof of the Bentley with a sound like someone shaking a tin of coins. It was almost too loud to hear Aziraphale say:

“Stay safe, Crowley, my dear.”

Crowley cocked an eyebrow at him, “I’ll do my best.”

Aziraphale shuffled out of the car, but hesitated before closing the door. He paused as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t, in the end. Rain quickly darkened his burgundy waistcoat. The angel swung the car door shut.

 

*

 

Hell was as he remembered it, unfortunately.

Crowley alternated between watching the floor for something disgusting he might step in, and watching the ceiling for something equally disgusting that might drip on him. Of course, he was also keeping an eye over his shoulder for something that might be following him, and checking the passageways and paths he passed for something that might leap out on him. And, most importantly, he was trying his damnedest not to get lost.

He had talked to a few surly imps (which was what passed for receptionists Down Below) and they had, after much cajoling, managed to tell him where he was to go; but nobody seemed to know what they wanted him _for_.

Worst still—he found out just who wanted him.

Belial.

Just thinking about that demon made Crowley’s guts squirm. For as long as he’d lived he had done everything in his power to keep under the radar of even minor Earls and Marquis of Hell—and Belial was a _Prince_. Second only to the King of Hell, Belial had dominion over all perverts, occultists, or anyone with a ‘disturbed soul’, which, humanity being humanity, gave him a very large slice of the pie. Even being an atheist was enough to add to his power.

Crowley wondered if Belial was going to evaporate him on the spot or he’d fit in some old fashioned torture first.

The long, rotting, plastic-lined hallways of the Temptations Department gave way to rough brimstone. The corridors ahead of him made a sharp downturn. Heavy sulphur drowned out the acidic, slightly sweet smell of rotting flesh, and Crowley might have appreciated the change if he didn’t hate the smell of Sulphur more.

Crowley sped up to avoid a steady drip of black blood from the ceiling. Hell was never well-lit, but these passageways were particularly dim. Crowley pushed his glasses back into his hairline and wondered if he should approach as a snake. That had, after all, been the last form Belial had seen him in, although that was only supposing the fallen Angel remembered him at all.

The air had been growing steadily colder as he approached Belial’s palace, and now the ground under Crowley’s snakeskin shoes crunched with frost. The tunnels had been getting lighter too, lit by a pale blue light, and as he turned a corner and icy light flooded his eyes, he knew he’d reached his destination.

“ **Crawly, is it?** ”

The voice was almost painful to hear, like a knife squealing through ice. Crowley’s stomach churned. He blinked a few times to get used to the light, nodding quickly.

Belial sat, knees together, on a huge ice throne. He looked, at first, like a relatively normal man, pale as new ivory, with two sets of eyes as white and empty as cue balls. His black, cleanly cut cloven hooves rested in a small mound of frost in front of him.

“Y-yesss,” Crowley said, when he realised he’d been asked a question. He wondered, hopelessly, if he should kneel.

Belial watched him. There was not a lick of colour anywhere on the demon, save his blue-tinged hands. Even his goat-legs were a soft, downy white.

Crowley hated to be looked at like that. He wanted, desperately, to wither away, to slip out of sight. He cast a glance around the courtyard of the palace, and didn’t see a single other creature. Utter stillness. He peeked behind him and saw the passageway he’d come through was now so far away it was the size of a sesame seed.

“You, uh— w-wanted sssomething, my lord?” Crowley prompted. He tried very very hard not to squirm.

“ **I wanted to congratulate you,** ” Belial said.

Crowley stared at him. His brain couldn’t process that. “C-con…?”

Belial leaned forward, and Crowley jolted, taking a few steps back instinctively.

“ **You have done impeccable work, Crowley,** ” Belial continued, his voice like a sledgehammer falling just shy of Crowley’s ears, “ **My department only just finished the paperwork produced by the world wars. I’m sorry for the delay. Your work produced a huge boon for me and my men.** ”

Crowley remembered, belatedly, that he had actually taken credit for that. He had been writing his report and had just thrown that in a bit about selling a sandwich to Gavrilo Princip. It had felt almost soothing, at the time, to pretend like the wars were Hell’s doing, and not caused by much uglier, more complicated factors.

The silence stretched a little longer and Belial’s milky eyes watched him expectantly.

“T-thank you,” Crowley hissed,“My lord.”

Belial glanced away and Crowley felt a weight lift. It was like a strong light being turned off.

There was a rustling and the ice beneath their feet cracked. Crowley jumped. A deep turquoise shadow shifted under the ice, and spindly, frost-bitten blue arms emerged from the crevice. Belial reached out a hand and plucked a thin book which one of the shrivelled arms was waving around. As soon as he had it, the arms dropped away and the crevice healed.

“ **Now** ,” Belial flipped through the thin book, “ **Do you have any preferences to territories? You have some choice, though most of the lands are already claimed.** ”

“Territories?” Crowley echoed, bewildered. Listening to a Prince for so long had left his head fuzzy and aching.

“ **Yes,** ” Belial said, “ **I don’t recommend choosing land near the pit of flaming souls. It’s far too humid. Though there’s plenty of land to expand into, I suppose.** ”

“I don’t—I don’t need any territory, my lord,” Crowley protested.

Belial peered at him, and the weight of his gaze was like a bucket of ice falling over the lesser demon’s shoulders. He shivered.

“ **Then what,** ” Belial asked, “ **do you want?** ”

“Nothing?” Crowley said, but it came out squeaking, “Er… the pleasure of the job is it’s own reward.”

Belial stared at him for a long, silence moment. Crowley heard the snow shift in the distance, the hostile landscape settling.

Then the Prince laughed.

Belial’s laughter was an assault on Crowley’s ears and his knees buckled. It was like he was inside a metal garbage can that someone was hitting with a baseball bat. It was like an avalanche crashing towards him, unstoppable, a pure force of destruction. It was ear-splitting.

When he finally stopped, Crowley’s ears rang painfully. He picked himself up from the icy ground, knees shaking.

“ **You would do well in my retainer** ,” Belial said, “ **I like to laugh.** ”

Crowley felt like he ought to respond, but his whole body was wound like a spring, and he couldn’t untense enough to speak.

“ **Maybe you have a point** ,” Belial said, “ **It is good to keep you on Earth. I can give you a different gift. Perhaps you can even start another war for us.** ”

Crowley managed a nod.

Belial stretched out his hands. His fingers were far too long, his palms spotted with glowing light, like sunlight through old curtains. Crowley took a moment to realise he was being beckoned forwards. He couldn’t get himself to move.

“ **Come here, my son,** ” Belial commanded, “ **And no more bargaining.** ”

 

*

 

Crowley surfaced into consciousness as if breaking the surface of an icy lake—sudden, shocking. He blinked quickly, gasping. Cold cloaked his limbs. His brain was fried.

He was inside the Bentley. Rain still pounded outside, relentless. The air he breathed was cool and still.

Crowley rested his forehead on the steering wheel, breathing heavily. His heart was still hammering in his chest, like a rabbit caught by a fox. He breathed and breathed. His lungs felt very tight. He was alive. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. He was on Earth, with the Bentley, in London, still. It was more than he’d dared hoped.

A faint sound reached Crowley’s ears, barely audible above the rain. A crackling, like frying bacon.

Crowley lifted his head, looking around blearily.

The steering wheel of the Bentley was decaying.

Where he’d rested his head and put his hands, the leather had curled away, leaving yellow-brown patches. The metal underneath was rusted and twisting. When he moved his hand away, white ash fell from his palms.

Crowley’s heart started to pound again. He saw the foot well sink away from his shoes, the footrest eating away at itself like it had been doused in acid. He turned and saw a whitish patch on the headrest where he’d brushed it, the black leather wrinkle and degrade.

He fumbled for the door and threw it open, launching himself onto the street. Cold rain doused his shoulders. He kicked the door shut, hesitant to handle it, and saw the metal warp where he’d touched it.

Horror flooded his system. He watched through the window as his beloved car ate itself, the places he’d touched continue burn away.

Something registered in the corner of his eye and he barely managed to leap forward as a pedestrian ran past, scattering water everywhere. He had to jump onto the road to avoid touching her. His heart thundered with fear.

As he looked around, he realised he was in an area close to his apartment. The pavement was dark with rain but he could already see the black, burnt marks his shoes hand left. He needed to stay out of the way, he needed to minimise the risk. God knows what would have happened if he’d touched that human—or at least, Belial did.

Crowley sprinted down the street and pounded up the steps to his apartment. He lived on the top floor, which had sounded like a nice idea at the time but was now only a hindrance. His footfalls withered the carpeted stairs but he’d rather do that than risk falling through the floor of the elevator.

As he was trying to unlock his door the handle rusted shut. He tried to pull the key out and it wouldn’t budge. The entire mechanism had become a useless hunk of old metal, patchy and discoloured.

Crowley stepped back from it hopelessly. Blood red rust drifted from his fingers.

“Shit,” Crowley wiped his mouth with the back of his hands. The metal continued to crackle faintly. A glance at his feet and he saw the soft dust of carpet remains that were covering the tops of his shoes like fine white ash.

Crowley wrapped his hands around the handle and pressed his toxic flesh into the sharp metal. It disintegrated into a shower of dust, the metal shrinking between his fingers, forming deep, crusted grooves. It took barely half a minute and the door swung open. The gnarled remains of the handle was left in his hands. He tossed it away and it clattered across the stone tiling.

It was a relief to be back in his apartment. He left marks on the stone, but it wasn’t disintegrating so quickly.

What in _heaven_ was he going to do now?

Crowley rubbed his face tiredly. At least he wasn’t decaying himself. His heart beat incessantly fast, and he felt like he was about to faint. He went to lean on his table, but changed his mind at the last second and sunk to his knees instead.

His hands were coated in a fine layer of metal sand. It grated into his skin, itching the wrinkles of his hands. It felt like sandpaper on his palms. He had to wash them off.

Legs shaking, Crowley managed to lever himself to his feet. When he finally managed to get to his feet, he swayed—

—and touched a hanging vine.

It was like he’d touched an electric wire. Every muscle in his body tightened in shock. He couldn’t move, couldn’t tear his eyes away, as the plant shrivelled under his touch. Sap rolled in streaks down his wrists.

Crowley recoiled, but it was too late. The thing withered and shrunk, loosing the healthy green Crowley had spent weeks bullying it to adopt. It was like the plant was burning with an invisible flame, the skin splitting and curling up, turning grey, then black, and breaking apart to soot.

Within in a minute, it was dead.

The alabaster planting pot—a present from Aziraphale—split in two. The soil dried and darkened, leached of all nutrients, until it became a pile of nothing around the broken stone.

Crowley’s breath caught. He felt a heat rise behind his eyes. He desperately wanted to scream, but he couldn’t open his throat.

He stood like that, staring at the remains of the plant.

He was radioactive. He was toxic, a new-age plague. He shivered. A cold was spreading through him and he was breathing hard, like his lungs had forgotten how to take in oxygen. It felt like his chest was full of water. The metal dust that had covered his hands itched and itched and itched. He swayed.

The phone rang.

Crowley’s head snapped up.

His home phone shook a little as it rang, vibrating on his desk. He watched it like a ghost might, almost confused at how normal it was. He couldn’t move towards it. He didn’t want to move at all.

It seemed to ring for a very long time, then there was a metallic click and Crowley’s own voice echoed through the apartment, “ _It’s Crowley. You know what to do._ ” A beep.

“ _Crowley, my dear, I know it’s a little early to expect you back—_ ”

“Shit!” Crowley leaped towards the phone.

“ _—but I got reservations at the Ritz for tomorrow and I’ll swing by—_ ”

“Angel!” Crowley hissed into the receiver, “You can’t come here!”

“ _What? Crowley is that you? What’s wrong?_ ”

“I can’t—we can’t—it’s too dangerous,” Crowley stammered, “I—I was talking to Belial and—”

“ _Are you alright? What’s going on?_ ”

“I’m fine!” Crowley hissed, “But you’ll be in danger if you’re near me, Aziraphale! You need to sstay away!”

“Is someone there? Are you in danger?”

“It’s me, _I’m_ the danger,” Crowley snapped, “I’ll figure something out but you can’t see me until then.”

There was only silence on the other end.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley asked, quietly. Nothing. Metal scratched his cheek. He lowered the phone to find the device chewed up and corrupted, the metal warped by his hand. It sparked half-heartedly. He tossed the ruined phone back onto the desk.

Metal dust coated his chin. It irritated his hairline and the inside of his ear. He folded his arms tightly to his chest and walked towards the bathroom.

Crowley turned on the shower with his fingertips. Even that quick touch left welts in the sleek metal.

Hot water fell onto him in a steady beam. He closed his eyes. His clothing stuck to him. At least his apartment wasn’t over-furnished, at least he didn’t have the narrow passageways and clustered doorways of Aziraphale’s shop. Oh, God, the shop. He was so thankful that he hadn’t stumbled into the shop. His mind filled with rotting books and blackened carpets and he felt sick.

He would miss the shop.

Crowley needed to leave London, and quickly. Aziraphale might have the good sense to avoid him for a few days, but Crowley needed to take himself out of the equation. He needed to go somewhere where he could learn to control this, if it could be controlled. Antarctica, maybe.

He reached for the knob, but found it sharp as a razor. He flinched back—and slipped on the slick tub.

Crowley’s ribs hit the side of the bath with a loud crack and he curled around it, body tight with pain. His fingers scrambled over the wet flat surface. Scalding water pounded his legs. The ceramic bathtub creaked and then finally cracked like a hatching egg, releasing a steaming wave of water.

Crowley collapsed onto the floor, hands full of ceramic shards. He struggled upwards. His hands were red with blood.

“Crowley?”

“Don’t come closer!” Crowley hissed, before he even laid eyes on his angel.

Aziraphale stepped gingerly around the ceramic shards. His neat shoes were shining with water. Moving slowly, as if not to startle him, he leaned over the tub and shut the water off. Crowley hadn’t realised how loud the shower had been until silence filled his ears.

“Let me help you up, dear,” Aziraphale bent down.

“No!” Crowley yelped, “Don’t touch me! You can’t!”

Aziraphale paused. A startled, sad look filled his warm eyes.

“Please, Angel,” Crowley gasped, leaning his elbow on the remains of the tub to heave himself up, “I-I, I’ll explain, just, please...”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said, taking a step back, “Whatever you need. I’ll be right here.”

It took a lot of unwieldy manoeuvrers, but Crowley managed to get himself to his feet. Aziraphale watched like a mother hen. Crowley’s hands stung savagely. He felt very tired and wrung out.

“Can I… heal you?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley’s chest went tight, “You can’t touch me.”

“I won’t.”

Aziraphale stretched out his hands. Crowley watched him like a hawk, reading to jump back if they so much as brushed him, but Aziraphale kept a safe distance. The blood faded from his hands, and his skin knitted itself back together. The ceramic chips worked their way out of his wounds and dropped to the floor.

Aziraphale moved a hand towards Crowley’s ribs and the demon flinched, but managed to remain close enough to feel the warm, tingling sensation of the miracle.

When he was finished, Aziraphale took a deliberate step back, though it pained him. “Come on,” He said, “Let’s have a sit down. I’ll make some tea.”

Crowley followed him back into the main room. Water splashed around them. Ceramic shards floated like stars over the black stone.

Aziraphale miracled up some tea, busying himself with preparing it just the way Crowley liked. Crowley himself hung back, feeling strangely awkward. He glanced around the apartment. The remainder of the plants were shaking quietly, clearly scared out of their mind by the treatment of the hanging vine. Small victories—he wouldn’t have to so much as raise his voice at the rest of them for as long as they lived.

Aziraphale sat down in one of Crowley’s chairs and gestured to the other, “Sit, please, my dear.”

“I can’t,” Crowley said, hoarsely.

“Please,” Aziraphale said, gently, “Try. There’s nothing to be lost, and you look like you’re about to keel over.”

Crowley hesitated, before folding his arms and sitting cautiously on the edge of the seat. It was an ugly, modern, wooden thing which would take a long while to buckle and collapse.

“Good, thank you,” Aziraphale relaxed slightly, “Can you drink tea?”

“No,” Crowley said, “The teacup—it would just break. Everything I touch is breaking.”

“How awful,” Aziraphale said with feeling.

Crowley fidgeted.

“What happened?” Aziraphale prompted, quietly.

“Belial called me,” Crowley said, “I-I... This is a reward, or. He thought it was.”

“I saw your Bentley on the way up,” Aziraphale said, “Was that a casualty?”

“The first,” Crowley murmured, “Then it was the lock, then the hanging vine, the phone… my bathtub...”

“Oh, dear, how dreadful,” Aziraphale said, “I don’t know if I can do much for the vine, but I did fixed the Bentley for you.”

Crowley smiled, tiredly, “Thank you.”

“Perhaps it’s something we can turn off?” Aziraphale said, “I don’t know much about these sorts of things.”

“I’m not doing anything to cause it,” Crowley said, “Maybe if I concentrate really hard—but I’m still dangerous.”

“Can we ask Belial?”

“I don’t know,” Crowley said, “If he thinks I’m being ungrateful he might just... turn me into a cockroach or something.”

“Well, if that does happen you’re free to scuttle around my shop until we get you better.”

Crowley smiled.

“Try to miracle up some gloves, will you?” Aziraphale asked, tentatively.

“It won’t work,” Crowley protested.

“Please, dear.”

Crowley snapped his fingers. Black gloves dropped into his lap. He pulled them on and waited for them to decay. He waited for the seams to unravel and the fabric to thin and patch. He waited for the smell of rotting fabric to fill his nose. He waited.

After a few long moments, he stared at his hands in shock.

“I thought so,” Aziraphale beamed at him.

“What?” Crowley flexed his fingers. He picked up the teacup and watched in amazement as it remained whole and undamaged no matter how hard he gripped it. “How is it…?”

“I suspected that might be the case,” Aziraphale took a long sip of his tea, “You haven’t damaged the seat, for instance.”

Crowley set his cup down and jumped to his feet, turning around to inspect the chair he’d been sitting on. Just as the angel said, it was completely unaffected.

“But my shoes are leaving marks—” Crowley paused, suddenly feeling very stupid. “Oh.”

Crowley’s shoes, sleek dark-green brogues, were snakeskin— _his_ snakeskin, in the same way that his _eyes_ were his. They were remnants of his previous form, the scales he wore in Eden. He had been like this so long he’d almost forgotten.

“Oh,” Crowley said, again, and sunk back into his seat.

Aziraphale watched him, plaintive. He wrapped his hands around his teacup, running a thumb along the rim.

“Well,” Crowley ducked his head almost shyly, embarrassed at how much he’d scared himself, “I suppose we’ll manage, in that case.”

Distantly, the sound of rain outside was easing. The pure white light of morning was breaking through the clouds and streaming in through the apartment’s tall, crystal-clear windows. There was chink of ceramic on ceramic as Aziraphale set his teacup aside.

“Though, it is a shame, dear,” Aziraphale smiled at him, “I would very much like to kiss you, right now.”

Crowley watched him for a long moment, and, tentatively, stretched out a gloved hand.

Gently, as if picking up a baby bird, Aziraphale wrapped his hand around Crowley’s fingers. He squeezed, very gently, and the contact was enough to bring a tired smile to Crowley’s face. Very slowly, he brought the gloved hand to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss to the knuckles.

**Author's Note:**

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> ...its a metaphor :)


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